For those of you who don’t know, the little # sign is called a hashtag and commonly used on social media sites. Hashtags designate a word or phrase representing a specific topic. They’re all the rage on Twitter, the site where people “tweet” the social media equivalent of a stream of consciousness.

Hashtags aren’t necessary on Facebook, but these days people like to use hashtags whenever possible. And although it’s more than a little goofy, they even speak in hashtags.

I did not use many hashtags in November because I didn’t “tweet” or post anything on Facebook for which I’m grateful. That’s not because I was short of possibilities. I’m thankful for my husband, Dan; our seven kids and four dogs; my crazy job; and even my rundown house with the broken furnace. Had I tweeted the litany of things for which I am truly thankful, the hashtag probably would have been #lovemycrazylife. But when you live a crazy life, some days are harder than others and make you want to tweet #hatemycrazylife.

That was the case a few weeks ago — Wednesday, Nov. 13, to be exact. I remember the date because it was my mother’s 94th birthday, a monumental occasion to be sure. But somehow, the whole day just seemed like a train wreck.

The crazy job was in full swing that morning as we chased stories about a fugitive on the loose in Strafford County and a guy in Dover who accidentally discharged a firearm and sent bullets into his next-door neighbor’s apartment.

All of the breaking news forced a late lunch hour, and by 1:45 I was ravenous. So, I drove home for a bowl of homemade chicken soup I’d prepared the day before. I was in such a rush to escape the office, I’d skipped a much-needed bathroom break, so I really had to go by the time I got home.

I let the dogs out, then sprinted to the bathroom. But never quite made it. As I reached the hallway leading to the bathroom, I felt my feet going out from underneath me. It was one of those freefalls with no possibility of recovery. I fell hard on my left shoulder; the same one I had just spent a month rehabbing in physical therapy because of an old injury.

I was stunned, but unhurt. That’s when I felt something wet on my pant legs and butt. I had slipped and fallen on a big pile of dog vomit. The indignity of falling was now much worse. The vomit was all over the only pair of black dress pants I had available that day. So I picked myself up and went to the sink to wash my pants while I was still wearing them — #disgustingvomit, #revoltingmess, #ihatemydogs.

Turned out the puking dog was our English setter, Sally. Remember that lovely chicken soup I’d rushed home for? Well, I’d made the stock by boiling the carcasses of two chickens that had been roasted in the oven with carrots, potatoes and Brussels sprouts. I hadn’t double-wrapped the bones before discarding them, and Sally sniffed them out, ripped open the trash bag and devoured the remains of those birds... bones and all — #doggiebellyache, #stupidbirddog.

I headed back to work and tried to isolate myself for fear I smelled of regurgitated chicken bones — #steerclearofcoworkers, #pleasedon’tsmellme.

The whole chicken-bone cleanup cut deeply into time I was going to use to buy my mother a birthday gift. So, after work I purchased two soft cotton button-up sweaters at Walmart and went to visit her at the Wentworth Home, an assisted-living facility in Dover. By the time I got there, is was 6:30 p.m. and she was too tired to celebrate. At 94, her bedtime is getting earlier and earlier. I described the sweaters to her and read the birthday card, because she is blind and can’t do it herself. Hoping for a laugh, I told her the story of how I’d fallen in a puddle of dog vomit on her birthday, but she was too sleepy to enjoy it. She wanted her pajamas on, and she wanted them on right then. So I dressed my 94-year-old mother in her jammies and kissed her goodnight — #wishihadvisitedearlier.

When I got home, I went to bed, too. It wasn’t a good day. Not all of them are, and they can’t be salvaged with a #grateful.

There was nothing inspirational about it. Sometimes it’s OK to put your head under the covers and sleep. A new day is coming and it likely won’t involve regurgitated chicken bones — #letsstartover.